Christmases Alone
by UnspokenPromises
Summary: What happens when they are left alone at Christmas?


_Some of them still don't know he's dead, _she thought, placing the last Christmas card on the mantelpiece. Most of them were addressed 'To James and Martha', even though he'd been left behind in Florida seven months ago.

Still, this was her first Christmas without him. Not that that bothered her. It was more the loneliness. Usually they would have friends round for drinks or something on Christmas Eve, and then family round on Christmas Day. But now he'd been disgraced, and she'd been packaged in with him, like the little wife she was supposed to be.

Of course, no-one had to know that she was the reason he was dead. In fact, it was far better that no-one did know. And that no-one knew that she was far happier without him.

_But the savings are starting to dry up, _she remembered. A traditionalist, James had naturally been the sole breadwinner of the family. Martha hadn't had to work for years now, and to be honest, she'd rather not have to start again now. The lifestyle had caught up with her. As had her hip.

But she still had the other two flats. She'd just sort them out – the damp in 221C was dreadful, but it would have to be sorted – and rent them and have a comfortable steady income in a few months.

_James would've shirked at being a landlord,_ she thought to herself. Then she grinned and put the kettle on. _This is what it was for though, all that faff in Florida. This is what it was for: a new start, a chance to do things he'd never have let me._

And suddenly, she felt like crying. In losing James, she had lost many of her friends and allies. Her family was mostly gone now too, dead or emigrated.

_No, Martha, you can't cry about this. You did it so you could have a new start. Losing these people will help you do that._ _Besides,_ she thought, pouring her cup of tea, _it's Christmas._

In the distance, she thought she could hear a police car under the sound of carol singers a few streets away. Remembering the carols from her childhood, she began to hum and sway across the room.

_Merry Christmas, world, _she thought, staring out of the window into the lantern-lit street below. _Perhaps it won't be so bad alone._

* * *

Christmas Day didn't matter. There were more important things to be dealt with. Like the mountain of paperwork sat before him.

Mycroft sighed. Even occupying his minor position in the government was tiring. If they had to do this much work at the top, perhaps his ambition was unwise. That said, this was far better than legwork. Perhaps higher up they have people to do this sort of work for you too?

He sighed again, lit his cigarette and prepared to buckle down for the day's work.

Eight hours later, he opened the last binder of the pile. At the top of the papers was a scrap of pink paper. 'Exceptionally tacky chair check underneath.' it read. The author had left no signature, but it was obvious, to Mycroft at least, who it was from, not only from the phrasing and lack of punctuation but from the familiar handwriting. What he didn't really know was what to expect of this Christmas gift, what delectable or dastardly present his brother might've left him on his first Christmas away. Judging by the phrasing, it was something sticky. Lately Sherlock had been all over codes and hidden meanings.

What Mycroft did know was to check somewhere else. Sherlock hated the obvious, and the obvious in this instance was to follow the instructions on the note and look under the hideous armchair in the corner of his office. Therefore the most sensible place for _him_ to look was the portrait of the chairman. Lo and behold, sat below this portrait was an open cake box. Inside, half a dozen doughnuts proudly displayed the most lurid green icing.

And how should one check the underneath of a box except by consuming the contents?

Of course, anything could be beneath the contents, Sherlock being Sherlock. Anything could _be_ the contents.

He bit into a doughnut, and promptly spat the mouthful into the waste paper basket. Damn Sherlock. To be fair, he didn't particularly dislike Brussels sprouts, it was just not a typical thing to put in icing. It seemed his younger brother had decided to send the most traditional and most traditionally abhorred part of a Christmas dinner to him, seeing as he wasn't attending it in person.

But it was fine really. Christmas day didn't really matter. Not really. He'd never liked it much anyway.

Besides, the dinners were a nightmare.

* * *

It didn't smell like Christmas in her new flat. The tiny plastic tree perched on the sideboard didn't give off that 'real tree' fragrance; there was no whiff of turkey, sprouts and burnt stuffing; you couldn't sense any excitement in the air.

After lying in until 10:30, Molly had decided to microwave an 'Easy Christmas Dinner for One' in its plastic container. She considered it one of the week's worst ideas, worse even than accepting that dare at the St. Bart's Christmas Party. The turkey had come out dry and the vegetables had fared even worse. She slathered it in almost half a jar of cranberry sauce and forced it down. Then she opened up her little stack of presents – a grand total of three, all from her classmates at Bart's. To begin with, she picked the conspicuously chocolate shaped present, wrapped in blue wrapping paper with penguins on it. _Roses, Heroes or Quality Street?_ she mused. She carefully unwrapped the paper to reveal a box of Heroes. The small gold package turned out to be a disappointing Milkybar polar bear, but the third was a DVD she'd wanted to watch for ages, as well as a teeny-tiny selection box from Thorton's.

Smoothing out the wrapping paper, Molly decided that she could've done worse. She'd get something from her parents tomorrow when she went to see them, as well. She slumped into the sofa to watch the Queen's Speech and while away the rest of the afternoon watching TV.

Around 6 o'clock, Molly heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and paid them very little attention until she heard them stop just outside her door. She tensed up, holding her breath, fearful of who might be stood there: was it someone deranged with a gun, who would promptly break the door down and shoot her? Or worse? But soon they were retreating back downstairs, and as the footsteps faded away, Molly could hear a faint mewling and pawing at her door. Relaxing slightly and taking a deep breath, she inched towards the door and opened it a slither. At her foot, a kitten fixed its icy glare on her. Molly, however, was more alarmed by the garish pink ribbon tied around its neck. Nervertheless, she scooped it up in her arms.

"Hello, little kitty-cat, are you lost?" She only just managed to dodge a fierce scratch, which sent a green cardboard tag flying across her line of sight.

_Dear Molly,_

_You always wanted a cat. His name is Toby._

"Well, I guess you're mine then. Looks like I've got some shopping to do." And as she shut the door behind her, she smiled for the first time that day.

Later, with Toby curled up at her feet on the bed as they watched the Doctor Who Christmas special, Molly whispered her thanks into the air.

* * *

_I need to get out of here, _he thought. I haven't been out for three days now, since the Christmas Party. He'd been given some leave over the holiday period, despite that it would undoubtedly be busy. He wished he was at work. It was nothing special, nothing _brilliant_, but it suited him well enough. At least there he had human company. Here he had nothing but happy memories soured by grief.

And by God it was cold. John shivered in his blanket. He clasped the remote and flicked through the channels. Soap specials, reality show specials, comedy panel show specials, specials, specials, specials – and nothing remotely interesting to watch. _Nothing could possibly be as special as last Christmas_, he thought.

He reached out of his blanket for the remote, and turned off the TV. Crap reality shows just made him miss Sherlock even more. Sherlock loved to hate them.

_This time last year, _he thought, _he insulted Molly, made my girlfriend dump me and predicted Irene Adler's death. And then he dragged everyone out to work the next day. Poor Molly._

_What an idiot._

He unfolded the scarf on the table, tied it round his neck, and cried.

* * *

Sherlock shuffled under an awning as fat raindrops hammered down around him. It was times like this that he thought his brother might be ever so slightly practical. He also missed his coat and scarf. He hated not wearing them, but the coat was recognisable to the point of iconic. Besides, it didn't feel right without the scarf.

Molly had requested that the scarf was left for John, in case it made him feel better. He'd known it wouldn't, but complied anyway. The coat, however, was folded away in a trunk in his new flat, along with most of his stuff.

The park across the road was deserted: no parent would let their child out in this ghastly weather, with or without the excuse of needing to be polite to relatives. The colourful plastic equipment was cold, wet and slippery, but Sherlock sat down on the swing anyway. The wind ruffled his hair, and his bare hands autonomously moved to pull his collar up to his cheekbones before he remembered it wasn't there.

He sat for ten minutes, thinking about everything head in hands, elbows on knees, the way he always held himself when considering a problem. _I miss Baker Street, _he realised. _I miss 221B, and Mrs Hudson and my violin. I miss Molly and Lestrade and St. Bart's and even Sergeant Donovan. I miss shouting at Anderson._

_But most of all, I miss my blogger. I miss John and his rants and his laptop and his tea._ _I hope he's better off without me there. At least he's safe._

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a church clock strike seven. He straightened up and his hands fell to his sides, yet he continued his prayer silently: _Let them all be fine. Let them all be happy. Please, on the off chance that there's a benevolent God up there, for Christmas, let them all have some peace._

He stripped off his soaking wet, ill-fitting tweed jacket as he entered his barren flat. He hated it for its normalcy; there was nothing interesting about it whatsoever; it was just so boring. He flopped down into the nearest chair, drenched to the skin. _No, _he realised, _I hate it because it's not 221B. It's not _my _flat at all._

But next year he would be back at 221B, in front of a fire, with John and Mrs Hudson. Next year he wouldn't be cold or wet or lonely. Next year would be so much better. It wasn't something he'd planned or deduced. He just knew it.


End file.
